


Daystar, Son of Dawn

by Frostfire



Category: The Dead Zone
Genre: Forced Psychic Visions, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Touching, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-28
Updated: 2006-07-28
Packaged: 2018-10-03 09:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10241690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/pseuds/Frostfire
Summary: Stillson kidnaps Johnny, ties him up, and touches him a lot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Notes For Dead Zone Fans: I've only seen to mid-second season, so that's where it's set. And--okay, it is Stillson and Johnny, but please note the rating. No sex! No sex at all. Also, come on, 1905 little words can't possibly hurt you. Give it a try. For me.
> 
> Notes For Non-Dead Zone Fans: Johnny Smith is a psychic played by Anthony Michael Hall. Greg Stillson is a politician played by Sean Patrick Flanery. They are mortal enemies, because Johnny (whose talent is visions, of the past and future, triggered by touch) has seen what is essentially the apocalypse, brought about by Stillson. But, Stillson is charismatic (and hot) and everyone loves him. Also he likes sex a lot. No, a lot. And that's probably all you need to know.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to the single person who indicated, in my poll, that she thought Stillson/Johnny would be totally awesome. You know who you are.

He has him. He _has_ him.

Greg hasn’t been this happy since—night before last, and God, was _she_ hot. Or maybe not. This might be…better.

He has Johnny Smith. He has him tied to a chair in a room in a building where no one will ever find him. This is oh so _fucking_ perfect.

It’s all thanks to Rosie. He loves Rosie. She’s one of the people who works for Greg Stillson and _only_ Greg Stillson, one of the people his dad doesn’t know exists, Reverend Purdy doesn’t know exists, _nobody_ knows exists except Greg. She’s his best muscle, and he loves her for it. Respects her. He hasn’t fucked her yet, even. And she’s getting a promotion, after tonight.

John Smith. _Not his real name_ , Greg thinks, and snickers. The _extremely_ real John Smith, just now waking up tied to a chair with Greg Stillson leaning against the wall behind him. Does Johnny know he’s there? Greg’s almost positive he needs to touch something for the psychic thing to work. And…isn’t that a good idea?

He steps forward, deliberately heavy. John hears, and stiffens. Greg walks slowly, loudly, up to just behind him, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

There’s the split-second, the total stillness of _having a psychic vision, can’t be bothered_ , and then, “Stillson.”

“Really, Johnny, we know each other well enough. Why don’t you call me Greg?” Greg circles the chair, slowly, crouches a little so Johnny’s looking him in the eyes. He looks furious. “What did you see?”

“What the hell are you doing, Stillson? Why am I here? You really think you’re getting away with this?”

“I really do.” Greg lets his hand hover over John’s shoulder. “Can I make you do that again?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Johnny grinds out.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Greg repeats, drawing the words out slowly. “Huh. Well, I’m sure I’ll find out _exactly_ how it works in the next little while.”

“You can’t just keep me here,” says Johnny, but Greg sees the flash of fear in his eyes. Johnny’s been finding out, slowly, just how much power Greg Stillson really has. Sonny’s been really pissed off about it, but no one cares what the fuck Sonny thinks.

“Hate to contradict you, Johnny, but yes I can,” he says, and he can’t stop the grin. It’s just so _perfect_. “No one knows you’re here.”

“They’ll miss me.”

Johnny’s all about the short, sharp sentences tonight. Greg’s heard that helps facilitate clear communication. Or maybe that was “I” statements. “Well, I’m sure they will, Johnny,” says Greg, “right up through your funeral. Did you know your car went off the road last night, during the storm? Right into a river. You’re dead.”

John’s breathing is coming a little faster. “You’re lying.”

“I wonder,” says Greg. “Can I _make_ you see something?” He reaches out, puts his hand on Johnny’s shoulder.

Split second, and Johnny comes back into the world shaking his head. “You couldn’t—they’ll find me,” he says, and Greg knows that kind of certainty. It comes from people who need to convince themselves of things, who keep themselves together only by _knowing_ certain facts, true or false. They’re easy to manipulate, hard to change.

“Did you see that, Johnny?” he asks, even though he knows it isn’t true.

“I know it,” says John.

“Well,” says Greg, “I guess we’ll just have to wait for them, then. And how shall we pass the time?”

John’s quiet. He has a good poker face, when he’s trying, but it isn’t perfect. And he’s never learned, like Greg has, that you need a default face. If you go blank every time you’re hiding something, well, then everyone knows you’re hiding something, don’t they?

John’s got a blank face, all right. Like fucking granite. Greg sometimes thinks that John _looks_ like a prophet, with his silver-topped cane and his deep voice and his stare that slices through people like they were made of paper.

Greg reaches out and trails his little finger over Johnny’s forehead. It’s cool to the touch. No vision this time.

“You know, Johnny,” he says, “we talked about this. I know you remember. I asked you to join me.” And he was angry—oh fuck yes he was, he broke everything he could lay his _hands_ on, when he first realized that this was just never going to happen. Because they would have been brilliant together, God on their side, sweeping through the country like bright and shining angels. “And I hoped you would. But—you’re working against me. My enemy.” He smiles. “And I make it a point to learn everything I can about my enemies.”

He puts his hand on the center of Johnny’s chest. Johnny’s eyes freeze for that split second, and this time, when he comes out of it, he flinches.

“What did you see, Johnny?” Greg asks. “Did you see me?”

Johnny’s quiet.

“Let’s work with this,” says Greg.

Johnny doesn’t have a vision every time Greg touches him. The light tap on his nose, the quick grip on his tied-up hand, the stroke down the side of his ear—nothing. But he freezes when Greg brushes against his leg, when he slips a hand through the slats on the chair to touch Johnny’s back, when he slides a thumb over Johnny’s cheekbone.

It’s really almost sexual.

“How does your gift work during sex, Johnny?” Greg asks, idly. John’s breathing a little harder now, a little further undone. Whatever he sees when Greg touches him, he doesn’t like it _at all_.

“That is none of your fucking business,” Johnny grates out.

“Well, everyone’s heard that when you’re having sex, you’re also having sex with everyone your partner’s ever had sex with,” says Greg, and watches the memory slide through Johnny’s eyes, the muscles in his shoulders tighten. “That’s happened to you, hasn’t it. Bedroom a little crowded these days? I wonder if Sheriff Bannerman was watching you while you fucked his wife.”

“Shut up,” snaps Johnny, and stops, visibly controls himself. Back to the poker face. There’s a weak spot—not rocket science, figuring _that_ one out—but it’s too easy to be really fun. Greg touches Johnny instead, trailing his finger along the blond hairline. No vision.

When he runs a hand down Johnny’s side, Johnny comes out of the vision shaking his head, and he says, breathless, “This is a stupid thing to do, you know. I could be learning all your campaign secrets. Forget looking like an idiot during a debate, you could be wrecking your career.”

Greg smiles. “I am known for my poor impulse control. And anyway, that’s assuming I’m going to let you live. Have you seen that?”

“Not yet,” says John, and he bends his head and waits.

This time, Greg aims for a blue eye, moving fast. John’s eyelids flutter shut just in time, and Greg lays a finger gently on the eyelid and watches the vision in John’s shoulder muscles. He lifts his hand from John’s face and paces around the chair until he’s behind it again.

“You know, Johnny, you are one of the tensest people I have ever met? Not even Sonny is more locked up than you, and—well, you know Sonny well enough by now, you know that that’s just _sad_.” He drops his hands to John’s shoulders. No vision, yet. He starts kneading. He wasn’t lying—he can feel the muscles knotted under his hands. How does this guy even _survive_? He stays in his house all the time, his fiancée’s married to another man, his son has another father, and he has psychic visions of disaster all the fucking time. Greg’s mind dances ahead, sketches ahead a terrible nervous breakdown and confinement to a mental hospital. A psychic in an insane asylum. Wouldn’t that just be a…nightmare.

Greg’s never had problems getting women into bed, but he learned how to massage anyway, because sometimes it can take a little work to get them to agree to some…creativity…and it’s always easier when they’re relaxed. He’s good at it and he knows it, although it’s possible the psychic visions of disaster could be getting in the way of his magic fingers.

A ripple goes through Johnny’s body. Greg smiles. “Who was I fucking in that one, Johnny?”

“Redhead,” says Johnny. “Nice eyes.”

“Going to have to be more specific than _that_ ,” says Greg, and keeps at it. Johnny isn’t going to relax in this lifetime, but he’s maybe getting marginally less tense. If he were trying to get John into bed, he’d be seeing this as the first tiny, tiny step.

And that sets him laughing.

“What’s funny?” says John. Greg moves up to his neck, and his head bends under Greg’s hands.

“Nothing you’d laugh at,” says Greg. John Smith in his bed. No _way_ could the guy keep it up, what with the previously referenced psychic visions of disaster—Greg can practically see Johnny’s balls crawling up into his body when he comes back to reality. Besides, Greg goes for the ladies, and even if—well, he’s sure John has a great personality, because he does _not_ know how Sarah Bannerman can look at that granite-carved face while she fucks him. Face of a prophet, not of a lover. _But he’s great on TV_.

He’s still laughing as he drags his thumbs up Johnny’s cervical vertebrae, and watches him snap in and out of a vision without tensing. But then Greg lifts his hands entirely, and when he drops one again, Johnny flinches just before it lands, in his hair.

“I would _love_ to know what you’re seeing, Johnny,” says Greg softly. “Am I in bed? In office? Am I ruling a state, or a nation? Is the population bowing before me, or does that only happen in fairy tales?” And he loves John Smith for that one thing, especially. “You know, John,” he says, leaning further in, “as long as the prophet is against me, I _know_ that I’m going to win. People of no consequence are not preached against, and Reverend Purdy told me that you don’t see things that don’t matter. _And_ you spend all your time working against me, instead of rescuing kittens from trees, or solving murder investigations, or hiding in your house from all the people who want you to touch them. You know how that makes me feel, Johnny?” He slides his hand through Johnny’s hair, down to his neck again, and leans in until he’s breathing into Johnny’s ear. “It makes me feel—” Vision. In, and out, and Greg finishes, “like the world is waiting for me. Like it knows I’m coming.” He lifts his hand again, circles the chair.

John lifts his head. He’s heavy-lidded, shaking. What does he _see_? “It knows you’re coming,” he says. “And it’s holding its breath to keep from crying.”

Greg sucks in his breath; he’s tingling and he’s hard and he’s blinking back tears. He places his hands on either side of Johnny’s head, and bends down. When he presses his lips against Johnny’s hot forehead, he can feel the vision going through him like a shock.

“Thank you,” he breathes.  
  
When he pulls back, Johnny’s closed his eyes, and the lashes are damp.

Greg takes a deep, clean breath, and laughs. “Here I come,” he says. “Here I come.”

_end_


End file.
